


we are all businessmen

by soliloquium



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1700-1800s hetalia, Almost Romance, Angst, Hetabang 2020, Historical Hetalia, M/M, bit of France /Romano, sort of coming of age, they are tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23899729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soliloquium/pseuds/soliloquium
Summary: sometimes, we need to tear ourselves apart to make something new // in which Romano grows up and Spain tries to understand something at the other end of the horizon
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	we are all businessmen

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAA

Spain's face has become a graveyard, these days, all harsh lines and haunted eyes. Yet, he smiles at Romano and Romano looks away, fingers skimming the page again, again and again.  
  
France's letters are flowery, his Os and Ps in long, loopy cursive, pretty metaphors lining page after page, new exciting philosophies about God, the king, all the people between their arbitrary borders. It's exciting in its prohibition, like a secret. It makes Romano feel mature, feel _seen,_ as if the conversations didn't just flow one way, a subtle indoctrination.   
  
France leaves out the bloody, tricky parts, signs with his human name, says he will miss him _most ardently._  
  
"What are you reading?" Spain will ask, and his golden cross, eroded from all the wars won, scarred from all the years gone by, glints in the golden candle light.  
  
And Romano will lie, furtively sneaking the papers under another book. This is how a sea begins to divide them.  
  


* * *

  
When Romano mentions France, on accident, spilling his name forth as he trips over his words, (all these topics are shoelaces that're too long, too dangerous, Spain's staircase is far too steep, knife edges) Spain's mouth turns sour.  
  
Too much lemon in the tea, he says airily, and Lovino can only press his lips together, pretending not to notice the typically verdant eyes flash with aggressive urgency. This is their first real conversation in months. These days they are more ghosts than people, drifting to the same chipped wooden table for a silent meal three times a day. Sometimes, Antonio will attempt to start a conversation, other days, there is ice in both their veins.   
  
The war of Spanish succession was not easy for him, Spain will remind Romano again, again, again, his words carrying pitchforks and torches under a cavalier forefront. The French Bourbons were not good people. Before, Romano would ask, in almost angry curiosity, about the battles Spain fought, of all the worlds Romano would never see, never know about, because he was stuck here, in this infantile castle-prison made of expensive marble and ivy. Before, Spain would lock himself in his room, and Romano would rage against the locked door, pleading, sometimes, for an answer, explanation, for the latest gaping wound. Now, Romano has long since exhausted his interest. He will never figure the mystery of his caretaker, boss, enigma.   
  
Spain doesn't bother pretending to be immortal anymore.  
  
But the French Bourbons are now Spanish. And Romano will sip his tea, milk-and-honey-less.  
  
"Things are simple this way, Romano, you obey the king and you obey the church. That is the way it's been for centuries, for good reason, you'll understand one day, when you're older," he says, offering charred coal and expecting Romano to find nourishment.  
  
There is a gnawing ache in the pit of Romano's stomach but he shakes his head, says nothing and tonight both of them will lay awake with the thought.   
  


* * *

  
Romano thrives in the garden, amongst the tall stalks, freshly watered and smelling like new beginnings. Spain can not see him here.  
  
His eyes scan letters over letters, until the pages are stained a coffee color from use. France whispers promises of rebellion, of independence, of a satiated land with his ink. Romano can see himself, standing on top of a hill, a different kind of Emperor than Rome was, but just as glorious, and more just. Diplomacy over swords.  
  
_Let me take your hand,_ France whispers, _let me make your dreams come true._  
  
On the wooden table, Spain waits. Steam wafts away from the two simmering cups. The tea is lukewarm when Romano arrives.  
  


* * *

  
People say  
  
Spain is kind, he is benevolent, he is just  
  
except he really isn't.  
  
The next day, Romano finds his beloved letters slow turning to ash. There are no apologies. In the Spanish empire, the sun never sets, it is only natural something would catch fire eventually.  
  
"I will tell France to stop writing to you. He is filling you with filth," something like betrayal is written across Spain's face though, funnily, it is Romano that is on the floor, "I do not take kindly to _liars, Lovino."_  
  
A single tatter remains, a sliver of bittersweet nostalgia, Francis' voice. _Most ardently._  
  


* * *

  
Romano used to consider the hairpin turn. Francis, new, inviting, promising an exciting new world and a handful of glory with it, chintz plates and extravagant palaces, the regalia of independence. Spain; warm, a constant, a cave to crawl into during the rain, moorland and vineyards, earthy and real.   
  
A tiptoeing earthquake has left one path unusable. Romano sweeps out of the house, in the middle of the night. The moon watches him, ominous with an unwavering judging eye.   
  
Romano does not say goodbye. There is too much fury in him; a restless sea. If he spoke, the tsunami would come, destroying the remnants.   
  
It is better this way, he reasons, Spain will not miss him anyways. It is better.   
  
Romano waits for France on a fraying sofa. He picks idly at the stray threads, anxious, a whirlwind of negative thoughts in his mind.   
  
He thinks of perfumed letters, of aquamarine eyes. There is so much promised to him, so much potential.   
  
It takes exactly two weeks for all of that to shatter.   
  
Spain sends him letters. Romano sets fire to every single fucking one.  
  


* * *

  
“That is how men are, Romano,” he can hear Antonio’s voice, an attempt at a teacher like moment , “vicious creatures. Survival of the fittest is the only way a nation can survive. If someone is kind to you, they are controlling you. Soft power place is just another type of diplomacy. Is just another type of violence.”  
  
But wasn’t that Spain, wasn’t his open palm not just reaching for his hand? Wasn’t it a different type of shrewd manipulation?  
  
Romano can see him, the hunger in his eyes, the way he’d cast his shadow over the map, a different kind of cancer, taking and taking and taking.   
  
And yet. His calloused palm was soft in some places. He’d make Romano tea just the way he liked.   
  
Romano wants to scream, instead he compartmentalises his grief into muttered curses. As adults do.   
  


* * *

  
It isn’t long before Napoleon sweeps across Europe, tricking the Spanish too, offering them south Portugal and giving them nothing.  
  
Spain’s monarchy is made of fools. Was.   
  
Now a Bonaparte sits on the throne of France and there are deep, dark trenches under Spain’s eyes.   
  
In his eyes is a chilly indifference that causes branches in Romano to snap off and fall.   
  
“Did you get what you want?” Spain asks, airily, and his mouth is a grim line.   
  


* * *

  
Romano shoves him. He is all at once a forgotten brother, a jilted wife, a disappointing child, a forgotten toy. “Jesus fuck,” he cries out, Spain’s tattered shirt fisted in his hand, “look at me- hate me if you have to but don’t fucking dare look at me with that blank expression- like. Like I’m nothing.”  
  
Romano’s voice cracks at the last word. And Spain pushes him off the cliff as he drags away Romano’s desperate fingers.   
  
“One day you’ll understand.” There’s a special type of cruelty in that.   
  


* * *

  
Romano is fine. He is fucking fine. There are no hands to hold, no stupid perfumed letters to fawn over. He stands, limping, but independent. He will be fine. Not glorious, but fine.   
  
But that, Romano learns, is what adulthood is really about. Reconciliation with reality.   
  


* * *

  
Reality mandates that Romano is not control of the ride. There were places he thought he'd needed to go to, things he thought he'd needed. But it was Spain who was holding the reigns, gazing anywhere but him, saying he wont accept any sort of Italian Independence. It's a push-back, and people accept it, everyone else gets their little pieces of land back, squares on a map, why shouldn't Spain?   
  
Once again, he is sitting at table, a ghost in pale colors, watching as old, white men draw boarders again and again over the mountains, hills, things things that constitute his lungs, his stomach, blossoming with forests. He can feel the ice settling on the flowers, all his people taking out their winter atire, putting logs in the fire place as they wait to be handed their new nationality.   
  
Once again, it is so very difficult to feel anything except resentment at the world.  
  
Later, they will call it a temper.  
  


* * *

  
Their garden is a ghostship. The once resplendent foliage has been reduced to dried mulch and undulating brown. Romano rubs a stray leaf between his thumb and index finger, thoughtful.  
  
"It died without you," Spain tells him, softly, as he turns to give Romano some time alone.   
  


* * *

  
Spain's house seems so much smaller now, the walls less imposing, and yet impossibly more lonely. To speak is to exist; all they have are empty rooms.   
  
They still have their meals together. No crisis, it seems, can curb this innate habit, as natural as breathing. They chop vegetables in a silence that isn't totally oppressive.   
  
Spain accidentally burns himself as he transfers the boiling pasta water to the sink. Wordlessly, Romano will crouch down, cover the slowly blistering wound in gauze, a cotton-y bandage. They remain, for a while, on the tiled floor. Antonio’s wrist cured loosely in Lovino’s palm.   
  
There's nothing he could've done differently, Antonio explains, to the marble counter tops, the sliced onions, the chipped wooden table, anything that isn't Romano, nothing he could've done.  
  


* * *

  
At night, among the winding, melancholy shadows, Romano creeps into Spain's room. If he tries to stab right now, Spain will not stop him. Their deaths are not eternal, after all, though he wonders if he would stop Romano if it were.   
  
The bed dips where Romano climbs. He lies beside Spain, sighs from the burden of their history together. So many things to say, not enough courage to mutter the words. Romano's heart is a raging tempest.  
  
"I need you," Spain unloads onto him, the l-word slips through the cracks, much needed and yet impossible to fathom, "I will need you if I never see you again and I will need you if I see you next Tuesday."   
  
"I know," Romano sighs, again, feeling older than worlds, world-weary, world-wise, his mind still reeling from that last mile, "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> Not my favourite piece but anything is better than nothing!
> 
> This was a project I made with https://askitaliaromano.tumblr.com/ and https://yoguart296.tumblr.com/ on tumblr!! Their work is amazing pls do go check them out!


End file.
